


The Planting Season

by ophelia_interrupted



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angsty Schmoop, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:06:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophelia_interrupted/pseuds/ophelia_interrupted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before a Jedi is ready for epic adventures, he has to learn to face everyday challenges with steadiness and courage. Qui-Gon helps his young apprentice navigate one such everyday struggle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Planting Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Princess_Arulmozhi. DarthIshtar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Princess_Arulmozhi.+DarthIshtar).



> This story is set in my made-up "alternate EU." Obi-Wan's backstory is quite different from in the JA books, but you don't need to know the whole thing for the story to make sense. Just suspend disbelief and come along for the ride.

A Jedi’s career always ended with courage. Some ends were heroic, some tragic, some soft and peaceful, but all were without fear, since from the very beginning of their lives, Jedi trained to face the end. 

The start of a Jedi’s life outside the Temple also required great courage, although a young Padawan’s path to Knighthood was not usually marked by especial heroism, tragedy, or peacefulness. 

Usually, he started out sick. 

Qui-Gon had not been terribly surprised when his twelve-year-old apprentice, out of the Temple for all of two months, had gone to bed early the night before, complaining of a headache. It also wasn’t all that surprising that poor Obi-Wan was currently clutching the duraplast liner of a waste disposal bin, still reeling after apparently throwing up everything he had ever eaten in his life. 

They were in the common room of the well-appointed quarters they’d been assigned to on their current diplomatic mission--a low-priority one among people who were reasonably understanding, fortunately. Masters with novice Padawans were usually assigned such “soft” missions for a time, precisely because their small wards tended to require close supervision at sudden and awkward moments--such as when they started the morning off by getting sick in every receptacle within a fifteen-meter radius of their beds. Obi-Wan had already gotten the sink in the miniature kitchen area, both the sink and the toilet in the ‘fresher, and now his disposal-bin liner, which he’d taken with him into the common room once he was feeling “better.” 

Qui-Gon’s first apprentice had made a fairly smooth transition from the Temple to the outside world, but after thirteen years as her guardian and mentor, he was a well-broken-in veteran of caring for sick young people. His portable “med bay” was therefore already close at hand, and it consisted of the really useful things that he had not valued as highly when he was a first-time Master. The actual emergency kit was now in a sealed box at the bottom of his small pack of belongings, on the floor of the closet in the little apartment’s master bedroom. There it would stay, as well, until someone was bitten by a deadly Tovè’s Viper or shattered all their bones by falling from the top of a cliff onto a moving speeder. 

By contrast, the supplies he’d placed on the low table by the common room couch included commonplace things like a damp cloth and a bowl of cool water, a bottle of a mint-flavored mouth rinse that neutralized the taste of vomit, a thermometer, a pitcher and glass of water, and various mild fever-reducers and anti-emetics, none of which Obi-Wan had been able to keep down. 

There was also a tube of “stillpoint gel,” a remedy peculiar to Jedi, that Obi-Wan seemed to find helpful. At least, he kept asking his Master to put new dabs of it on the insides of his wrists. The stuff created a cool, tingling sensation that a suffering Jedi could center his awareness on. A skilled meditator could focus his mental energies on it to such a degree that he could block out pain entirely. That was not a trick for a novice, however, and arguably, anyone capable of using stillpoint gel as a real anesthetic didn’t actually need the stuff. In fact, Obi-Wan’s repeated requests for more and more of it indicated that the remedy was not working, but something about the gel seemed to give him a kind of psychological comfort, and Qui-Gon certainly wasn’t going to withhold it from him. 

Obi-Wan also seemed to appreciate having an adult brace his stomach when he was getting sick, and Qui-Gon had pulled the boy into his lap so he could keep a supportive hand against abdominal muscles that were likely already pulled. Obi-Wan was keeping one of his own hands pressed against a spot on the left lower edge of his ribcage, where muscle attached to bone. Apparently something had gotten badly wrenched there, and he had to keep a grip on that place himself. 

Sympathy pains jabbed Qui-Gon’s own gut whenever Obi-Wan had another spasm of vomiting, especially when the boy reflexively gripped that sore place, but the Master Jedi also felt compelled to watch from a bit of a mental distance and evaluate how the child was coping. 

From the very beginning, Jedi prepared themselves for the end--and the little one sitting on Qui-Gon’s lap was already learning how to withstand pain and face down fear. For that reason, Qui-Gon resisted the natural urge to rush in and try to “rescue” his Padawan with much worrying and premature seizing charge. Excessive attempts at coddling or controlling might convince the boy that he could not handle his distress on his own, and that was the last thing Qui-Gon wanted to teach him. 

For that matter, Obi-Wan was holding his own quite well so far. There had been no tears, no homesick pleas to return to the Temple, and only enough complaints to make his needs known. He *was* being extraordinarily contrary at the moment, but being disagreeable was one way of killing the demoralizing whispers of pain. 

Qui-Gon had no intention of listening to the advice of certain other Masters, who urged him to discipline the willful streak out of the boy as soon as possible. For one thing, Qui-Gon had known Obi-Wan since he was pulled from the ruined city of Ixaca as a three-year-old--a lad too Force-blessed to have been killed and too stubborn to give up and die. His contrary nature had probably helped save his life. That, and a wise Master was a good steward of the material entrusted to him. Soil shot with metal ore would never make a suitable plowing field, no matter how much “discipline” the sifter and the harrow put into it. Such a field might yield the makings of a harrow itself, however--or a shield, or a sword. Obi-Wan’s nerf-headedness might be made into something of worth yet, if Qui-Gon were a shrewd teacher, and the boy a willing learner. 

Then again, the child might simply be a grouch when he wasn’t feeling well. He had just finished spitting another round of mint-flavored mouth-rinse into his receptacle liner, and he used the brief respite from illness to let himself flop backward, which left him leaning against Qui-Gon as if the Master Jedi were a convenient wall. “This is going to kill me, isn’t it,” Obi-Wan said. 

“Of course not. Don’t be silly,” Qui-Gon said. He could tell that the boy’s serious worries about death were approximately zero--Obi-Wan just wanted someone to argue with. One couldn’t argue with a nasty infective agent, after all, and that left one’s Master by process of elimination. 

“Yes, it is,” Obi-Wan insisted. “They can cremate me in the city incinerator, and you can mail me home in a plasform tube.” 

Qui-Gon wasn’t entirely sure where *that* idea had come from, and he wasn’t inclined to ask. Instead he said, “I don’t believe I shall be mailing you anywhere.” 

“Then you’ll have to carry me through the spaceport in a box,” Obi-Wan said. 

Qui-Gon turned his head just enough so that he could look at the boy without jostling him. Obi-Wan felt best when he was kept absolutely still. “When did you develop a sense of gallows humor?” he asked. Wasn’t this the child who’d been laying out toy cities on the floors of the Temple just a few months ago? 

“What’s ‘gallows humor?’” Obi-Wan asked. The innocence of the question was tempered by his obvious annoyance that his Master was insensitively talking in code at him. 

“It’s when a person pretends his own misfortune is funny. Usually it’s intended to make it look as if he doesn’t care about something when he really does,” Qui-Gon said. 

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said. “In that case, I’ve always had it.” His interest in the matter appeared to pass, as if he couldn’t be bothered with such trivialities at the moment. He let his head roll sideways slightly until it rested against Qui-Gon’s, and then he shut his eyes. The gesture was more one of exhaustion than open affection, but Qui-Gon hadn’t been essentially used as an inanimate object in quite that way in a long time. Obi-Wan might have discovered gallows humor, but apparently in moments of crisis he still thought of adults as being like the basic forces of the universe--absolutely reliable and not necessarily sentient. 

Qui-Gon had been trying to avoid a painful feeling of frustrated protectiveness that would get neither of them anywhere, and which might undermine Obi-Wan’s developing self-reliance. The feel of the boy’s sweat-dampened spiky hair against his cheek stirred up feelings too fundamental for Jedi training to root out, however. 

Maybe it was a mistake and maybe it wasn’t, but Qui-Gon decided that Obi-Wan had fought his illness long enough, and it was time for his guardian to take charge. The shift in the burden of control was signaled by Qui-Gon’s firmer hold on the boy, and his reach for the thermometer on the low table in front of the couch. If Obi-Wan’s temperature had risen at all since the last time Qui-Gon measured it--and the heat radiating from his skin suggested it had--then he was comming the staff of the local governor who was their host, and asking them to send in a medical droid. Obi-Wan’s illness didn’t seem particularly dangerous, but there were also limits to everything, Qui-Gon told himself. At the very least, there were limits to the Jedi team of Jinn and Kenobi’s tolerance for uncontrolled vomiting. 

As if on cue, Obi-Wan got sick again--probably because of Qui-Gon’s movement toward the thermometer. One normally did not use the Force for trivial things like fetching objects within arm’s reach, and Qui-Gon had reflexively leaned over toward the table. As he braced his Padawan’s forehead and stomach for what seemed like the thousandth time that morning, he sternly reminded himself he had to remain *absolutely* *still.* 

There was really nothing inside Obi-Wan for him to bring up anymore, but he definitely tried. Once the spasm passed, Qui-Gon remembered to use the Force to retrieve the damp cloth he’d been using to clean the boy up. Someone with no stomach contents didn’t actually make that much of a mess, but if nothing else, Obi-Wan seemed to appreciate the coolness on his face. After a moment he took the cloth from his Master and put it on the back of his neck. 

“Does that help?” Qui-Gon asked, as he checked the thermometer’s electronic readout for its last temperature reading. 

“No,” Obi-Wan informed him. The boy could be fantastically grouchy when he wanted to be. 

Qui-Gon sighed as he reset the little instrument, which was about the size and shape of a droid-calling device. “We are a font of optimism, aren’t we?” he asked. 

“Why bother being a font of optimism when you’re going to die?” Obi-Wan asked. Qui-Gon wasn’t sure if that question had philosophical implications by accident or on purpose, and honestly, he didn’t really want to know. 

Deciding to give up on arguing with his student, he said, “Very well--your life will be wretched and short. Now, I need you to move your arm.” 

Obi-Wan seemed mollified by Qui-Gon’s acceptance of his gloomy attitude, and obligingly lifted his right arm so the Master Jedi could get the thermometer under the flaps of his sleep tunic and up against his abdomen, just beneath the right side of his ribcage. The device worked best when placed over the patient’s liver, a deep, solid-tissue organ that gave an accurate reading on core body temperature. The reading itself took almost no time--the thermometer’s “finished” beep sounded almost at the same instant Qui-Gon hit the “start” button. 

Obi-Wan craned his neck to see the readout as soon as Qui-Gon withdrew the device. The Master Jedi held the thermometer’s screen up so the boy could see it better. It gave two readings, skin temperature and core temperature, although the core one was the reading Qui-Gon was interested in. That number had risen a full half degree since the last time Qui-Gon had checked; the fever had probably been driven up by increasing dehydration. It was not yet in the “crisis” zone, but it was high enough that Qui-Gon felt it necessary to call for medical intervention. 

Qui-Gon was actually somewhat relieved to have a clear-cut case in front of him. It was better than being caught in a no-win zone where one option sacrificed compassion and the other sacrificed his student’s independence and growing capacity for endurance. For Obi-Wan’s part, he seemed content to play listlessly with the thermometer. He tested the skin and deep-tissue temperature of each of his fingers, his palm, his wrist, his head, Qui-Gon’s head . . . 

The Master Jedi carefully removed his portable holorecorder from one of his belt pouches and used the Force to set it on the table in front of them, making sure not to move Obi-Wan too much. The boy noticed the comm and asked with some concern, “Do I have to go to the sick bay?” 

A “sick bay” was properly aboard a starship, but Obi-Wan was still learning the non-Jedi names for things. The Temple had only the Healers’ Wing; the outside world had a bewildering array of sick bays, hospitals, med centers, mobile first-aid units, and other things. “I was actually going to ask if they could spare a droid to send here,” Qui-Gon said. "It would be a bit difficult to take you anywhere, what with you throwing up every time you change position.” 

“They’d send a droid here?” Obi-Wan asked, sounding hopeful. It appeared that what he dreaded was not the possibility of painful medical care, but the nausea-producing move required to get it. 

“I hope so,” Qui-Gon said. “I’m sure they have at least one or two basic medical units in the governor’s compound--whether they’re free at the moment is something we’ll have to find out.” 

The governor’s staff quickly routed him to the compound’s med center, where a reassuringly modern and well-maintained-looking medical droid spoke with both Master and apprentice via holocomm. The world of Y’iera was an arid, sparsely-populated one with few resources, but it wasn’t completely backward. Instead, pockets of Core Worlds technology existed side-by-side with much more primitive accommodations. One never really knew what one would get. 

The same harsh conditions that had caused the Y’ierans to squabble over the rights to a newly-discovered aquifer had also hardened them to disappointment over complications, however, and the Jedis’ hosts had been gracious about the fact that Qui-Gon needed to care for his young apprentice at the moment. The governor undoubtedly had his own reasons for wanting Obi-Wan well as soon as possible, but Qui-Gon would take cooperation due to enlightened self-interest any day. For some years previously, as a Master with a grown apprentice, he’d been getting the sort of missions where people would be just as likely to shoot at you if you asked them for help, and the change was a pleasant one. 

The medical droid arrived with gratifying speed, and Qui-Gon had to gently deposit Obi-Wan on the couch next to him in order to get up and let it in. Perhaps psychological relief at the arrival of help helped pacify the boy’s hyper-sensitive stomach, because he didn’t get sick again after the move. The shiny silver droid that had come on the housecall was of the more-or-less humanoid B9 series--a model Qui-Gon knew and considered respectable. One of the nice things about the B9’s was that they’d been given rounded lines and large, gentle-looking eyes, as well as padding on their extendable gripper-arms, which made them look less skeletal. They were not pediatric droids per se, but they had been designed not to be frightening to children and other sensitive individuals. 

“Good morning,” the droid said in a pleasant, if slightly vocorder-mechanical, female voice. “I am B9-27, and this is my assistant, A-13.” B9-27 held her padded-gripper hand out toward a bright yellow, ovoid-shaped droid that hovered at about knee-height above the ground. Force only knew what the point behind the droid’s paint job was. Either someone was worried about it getting lost, and so made it easier to see, or they had warped sense of humor and/or fashion. A-13’s smooth carapace had all sorts of hatch-seams criss-crossing it, and Qui-Gon assumed that various appendages and tools could be extended from the openings. Qui-Gon had never seen anything quite like A-13 before, and he could only hope the little droid wasn’t alarming in any way--other than being a truly unholy color. Obi-Wan was not a timid child, even when under stress, but some of the more utilitarian medical units could be arresting even to a veteran adult. Qui-Gon had seen some rust-splotched, spidery things out in the field that had made him seriously consider getting up and walking out of a med tent. 

It appeared he needn’t have worried on Obi-Wan’s account, however--the boy looked ready to accept help from something that had crawled out of one of the lower Corellian hells, if that would ease the pain and nausea. His first question was, “Can you give me something that will stop me from getting sick?” 

“Oh, yes, as soon as I can,” B9 replied mildly, “but first, let’s examine you to find out what’s making you sick.” 

Obi-Wan remained quiet and still while the droid looked him over. Perhaps he was being stoic, perhaps he was simply trying not to move too much and throw up. In any case, he held his finger out without a word when B9 wanted to poke him for a blood sample. The boy’s attitude appeared to be one of expectancy: When do we get to the good part when the sickness *stops?* 

A-13 turned out to be the medical droid’s miniature personal laboratory. He ran tests for her, and spat back the results in warbling electronic speech. B9’s verdict was unsurprising: Obi-Wan had a common stomach infection that would go away on its own in a day or two. Obi-Wan’s reaction to *that* was rather like that of a man who’d just heard the news of his own impending execution. “A day or two?! I can’t stand this that long,” he exclaimed. 

“Oh, we can make you quite a bit more comfortable in the meantime,” the droid said. At that moment, something that looked at first glance like a long spike shot up out of the top of A-13’s “head.” The snapping sound of the pole’s deployment made Obi-Wan jump, and he looked up at it in alarm. 

“They’re just going to run fluids into you,” Qui-Gon explained, pointing out the pole’s IV hookup by running his finger over the notch. 

That seemed to appease the boy, and he looked on with dull curiosity as B9 and A-13 readied a fluids line for him. He actually seemed somewhat surprised and pleased when B9 fitted the loop at the bottom of the fluids bottle into the notch in the IV pole, and it snapped in perfectly. It was as if something he hadn’t quite understood had popped into focus when he saw a demonstration. Qui-Gon suspected that if Obi-Wan hadn’t been feeling so queasy, he’d have stood up to examine the simple little hook-and-latch mechanism. 

The medical droid didn’t have to ask him to present his arm for the needle--Obi-Wan worked it out of his sleep-tunic sleeve on his own and held it out, palm up. Qui-Gon supposed it was a sign of desperation when a twelve-year-old was practically begging a medical droid to poke a hole in his arm. 

There were two sorts of people in the galaxy when it came to being poked with needles--there were the people who looked, and there were people who didn’t. Obi-Wan looked. He was either very brave, or B9 was very good with her medical equipment, because he didn’t so much as flinch when the fine spike of sterile durasteel slid home. Then again, maybe a little poke in the arm was nothing compared to the clamping pains in his stomach. The boy continued to watch the droid open the fluids line and prepare the medication to be shot into it. Somehow, Obi-Wan managed to look if this was some of the better entertainment he’d seen all day. The boy was a practical-minded child who liked understanding procedures and the way things worked. In this way he was quite different from his Padawan sister, who only became fascinated by objects that were especially pretty or shiny in some way. She had never been so interested in Qui-Gon’s deep-heat sensing thermometer that he’d had to take it away from her, for instance. 

Obi-Wan only turned suspicious when B9 prepared to inject a colorless liquid into his fluids line. “What’s that?” he asked, looking at the contents of the syringe. 

“It’s an anti-nausea medication,” the droid said sweetly. Qui-Gon wondered if a sentient being would have been able to sound so pleasant with the boy looking at her as if he might be accusing her of something. Thus far, diplomacy was not Obi-Wan’s strong suit, but there would be time enough to work on that. The time was not now, when he was a small boy feeling about as sick as he had ever felt in his life. 

Obi-Wan’s suspicion turned to relief at once. “Oh, good,” he said, and Qui-Gon saw some of the tension leave his shoulders. The poor little thing had probably been making himself sicker by tensing up around his already-spasming stomach muscles, but, again, that was a lecture that could wait. Obi-Wan already had a lesson in Jedilike conduct that he was working on. He was working hard at being patient and obedient, and he had not given in to the despair that must have been so tempting to an ill child thousands of light-years from the place he considered home. True, his attitude could have been a little more positive, but one could hardly fault him for being grumpy under the circumstances. The important thing was that he was putting the Jedi’s most ancient enemy to rout--thus far, fear had barely touched him. It took a Jedi Master’s eye to see the knight facing down a blade in the child facing down a needle, but the real battle, and the real battleground, were the same. If Obi-Wan did nothing but continue traveling down the path he was on right now, knighthood would be there when his skills were complete. It would drop into his hands without effort when he needed it. 

B9 followed the anti-nausea medication up with something to reduce Obi-Wan’s pain and fever. An anti-infective shot had to be given in the muscle of his arm rather than intravenously, but the boy didn’t complain. He was already starting to get a sleepy look around the eyes that suggested the worst of the pain in his insides was starting to pass, and he wouldn’t be awake much longer. 

“Here--before you pass out, let’s get that off and wash that,” Qui-Gon said, pulling gently at a fold of Obi-Wan’s sleep tunic. The boy had shrugged off of one sleeve of it anyway. The garment wasn’t dreadfully soiled, but a person might not choose to sleep fourteen to sixteen hours in it, which was most likely what Obi-Wan was going to do once he finally dropped into unconsciousness. 

The boy moved with wincing cautiousness as he got the rest of the loose wraparound tunic off of him, but none of the motion made him throw up. Being left bare-chested made him shiver, however, and Qui-Gon quickly replaced the tunic with a blanket. The sleep tunic went into their borrowed quarters’ tiny wash unit, and then the Master Jedi did what he could to help his apprentice clean his face, hair, and mouth. When they were done, Obi-Wan still had a faint, sour-smelling rime of fever-sweat on him, but Qui-Gon doubted he was up to taking a real bath, much less a shower, in which he’d have to stand up. It was best to get him cleaned up enough to be comfortable, and then let him be. 

The boy was indeed mostly asleep by the time B9 was done running fluids into him. She’d put in rather a lot, and Qui-Gon suspected that Obi-Wan would be up and needing to go to the ‘fresher before too long--which was a pity in a way, since it would wake him up. Still, washing the infection out of his system was important as well. “Thank you,” Qui-Gon told the medical droid, once Obi-Wan’s fluids line was disconnected and she’d put a dot of quick-drying synthflesh on the puncture. One generally didn’t thank droids, especially not for performing their primary functions, but Qui-Gon was nonetheless as grateful as Obi-Wan would have been, had he been fully awake. “Thank the governor for me, as well.” 

“Oh, not at all sir,” B9 said cheerfully. “It was my pleasure.” That was probably true--most droids did “like” performing their duties; it would have been foolish to program them any other way. It was just as well, really--nobody paid a droid, and it would have been difficult to get even the most dedicated sentient medical personnel to look after a vomiting preteen for nothing. 

Well, actually, Qui-Gon looked after the same preteen for nothing, and that was probably why something deep within the non-rational centers of his brain kept insisting that the boy on the couch was his “son,” and therefore Obi-Wan’s health and safety were far more precious than Qui-Gon’s own. It was a feeling more personal than selflessness or disinterested compassion, and therefore not really doctrinally correct. For that matter, it wasn’t even especially wise--after all, Qui-Gon’s “daughter” was now completely beyond his help, out among the stars to fight or die, as the Force willed. Still, the Force loved life enough to be manipulative in its service, and it was not above tricks that would twist the emotions of even a Jedi Master, if that meant the next generation had a better chance of survival. 

The medical droid and her “assistant” were gone and Obi-Wan was deeply asleep by the time his tunic was clean and dry. Qui-Gon just spread it over the boy’s chest, and then tried to settle him a little more comfortably on the couch. Obi-Wan had fallen asleep half-sitting up, like a discarded doll. The boy woke briefly as his Master worked to turn the couch into something closer to a bed, and for a moment Obi-Wan looked up at Qui-Gon with wide, disoriented blue eyes. 

“All is well,” Qui-Gon told him gently. “Go back to sleep.” Obi-Wan’s eyes started drooping again almost at once. The Master Jedi carefully lifted the boy’s awkwardly-splayed left hand and rested it on his chest. 

The movement caused Obi-Wan to stir again, and his eyes opened one more time. After a hazy moment, his gaze seemed to lock in on his Master, as if seeking to ensure that he was still there. That brief searching look reminded Qui-Gon of something--a ship drifting in deepest space, maybe, scanning for the nearest sector beacon as a reassurance it was still in its home galaxy. Qui-Gon was far from a sentimental man, but he felt a certain tightening in his throat as he used a gentle Force-suggestion to nudge the boy back into slumber. That look had been one beyond love, beyond even need in the strict, survival-based sense. It was probably the way a non-Jedi child looked at its parent, not that Qui-Gon would ever know. 

It was a compliment beyond measure coming from this brave, sturdy little Jedi, who would not need a surrogate parent for long. Qui-Gon could almost see Obi-Wan eighteen months hence--visible knuckles and wrist bones making his hands more like a man’s than a boy’s; the soft curve of his jawline already hardening. By that age, he would be ready to ignite a killing blade and follow his Master into true danger. 

Kemé’s childhood had passed in the blink of an eye, and the end of Obi-Wan’s was in sight. The boy’s new biting sense of humor--not quite sophisticated, but getting closer--was the first sign of the change in the wind. 

It was the imagined voice of Qui-Gon’s own Master that urged him, “Sit down. It is wise to think of the harvest even as one sows, but do not miss the last months of the planting season. They will not come again.” 

With that in mind, Qui-Gon sat down on an edge of the table, and watched his apprentice sleep. 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> This story is especially for Princess_Arulmozhi and DarthIshtar, who have been such wonderful, loyal readers over the years. The Obi/Qui mush is for P_A, who is the queen of such things, and Kemé is for Ish, who actually writes her better than I do. 
> 
> Other Note: This fic was tested on DarthIshtar and found safe for human use. Ish was only mildly harmed in the making of this fanfic.


End file.
